


Rot.

by Likorys



Series: He's as visious as he's kind [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, M/M, Violence, but this here is not happy, it's the bad begginig to hopefully a happier ending, no beta - we die like dyslexic with no friends, not gore but gross use of body parts, some blood, some gross stuff, timelines don't apply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likorys/pseuds/Likorys
Summary: Geralt always hunted alone, then Jaskier came and just wouldn’t listen, would never stay safe and always put himself in danger.So Geralt learned how to hunt with him around.Jaskier was never supposed to become the one Geralt hunts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: He's as visious as he's kind [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635133
Comments: 3
Kudos: 83





	Rot.

Geralt is used to taverns and inns becoming quiet as soon as he comes in. It was better than being chased out, than being stones, than being spat on and cursed and kicked onto the streets, so he took it for what it was worth and got used to it.

Then Jaskier came along and he got used to people at least _tolerating_ him in most places.

Then he pushed him away and was alone again and he realized he didn’t get used to _people_ being neutral. He just got used to having the bard be so welcoming he noticed nobody else.

He’s alone now and suddenly even the quiet stares wear on him like razors on glass, sharp and useless, but so _grating_.

It’s been a few weeks, no more than one change of seasons, so Geralt calmed down enough to plan apology well enough he’s actively seeking out the bard.

He’s not prepared for people to give him_ fearful glances_ and become _so tight-lipped_ he might as well be talking to statues, for all the good it does him. It’s enough to mention his name, enough to describe the strap of his ever-surviving elven lute that is bright with embroidered flowers, enough to give the color of his hair and eyes, enough to just mention _a bard_ to make people shift uneasily and change topic.

If he was skilled with words, maybe he could’ve still got something, but he’s not, so he just travels as fast as he can, trying to find a place where the- _reactions_ didn’t reach, like chasing ripples in the water.

He doesn’t let himself wonder. He knows all the ways a human can become feared or unspoken for and if he started to go down the list, he would spiral and never get out.

It takes three months before he realizes something else. The more fearful people are, the fewer contracts seem to be around and then they seem to multiply by a dozen as soon as he strays far enough to be _outside_ of the area of effect.

It’s another thing to not think about, because _that_ he doesn’t have any explanation for (and his hearth seems to stop, frozen solid, at the realization he is utterly helpless and useless, frozen solid).

But no matter how good he gets at meandering along the edge of whatever-this-is, he never finds Jaskier. For a week, another, then a month, and then first snow falls down and he realizes that next spring will mark a year apart from bard and he-

He has no idea what to do. He doesn’t even care about any apologies of forgiveness or getting him back, just one talk or even a look, so he can know he is safe (so he doesn’t fear he destroyed the one good thing in his life completely, so he doesn’t spend nights trying to push away the answer he knows must be true by now).

Snow melts, then falls again, then melts once more and then Geralt stops counting, because the whole world might as well be as frozen as his heart, for how bleak and lifeless it became. There are no more places to escape the ripples, even when he doesn’t ask anymore, there is only fearful eyes and cut-off whispers and changes of topic and silence, dead and hollow, just like Geralt’s feels.

_He dreams of red hair and a tower and begs all the gods he knows history won’t repeat himself, because he will be digging two graves._

Then comes a fall, a contract from a Countess to protect her from a wraith and something is off. Beginning sound usual enough, but then wounds appearing on her during sleep and necrotizing don’t match wraiths’ behavior and they stink of poison under her powders (and whose make Geraltnose twitch, but he cannot remember why), and targeting _her_ and then seemingly _random people_ of the castle makes no sense.

Yet she confesses to dozen bodies buried in the cellar, her young lovers found by a jealous husband and made to disappear time and time again in a sick game Geralt saw too many times to count. Then she vows in the center of her courtyard to give her life just so the haunting stop and explains between sobs about burning the bodies after a proper burial, but one never being found.

The first one, a boy who served at their wedding, who never came back to his family.

Geralt wants to refuse and let her to the misery that seems well-deserved, but _something_ is off, so he stays. He stays, talks to the people who were attacked, to servants, the countess and then the count. He wasn’t mentioned in the attacks. When Geralt sees a bedridden stump, all limbs and extremities and tongue cut off and chest flayed open, he understands why. He still forces him to nod or shake his head fro his questions and then prepares as much as he can for something he still doesn’t understand at all.

It takes a few tries and three more people hurt, before he gets a clue and he almost wants to laugh.

He makes potions and hides away and waits instead.

House is small, belonging to a young girl barely caring for herself. He uses herbs to hide his smell, leaves armor off and only brings rope (he might be wrong, but fighting a wraith defenseless would hurt less than being _right_).

He waits and when someone sneaks through a window, he lets them get to the bed before throwing rope around them and pulling, a body pushed against his, something metal clattering to the ground.

He let’s go a second later because he was_ right_, but also _so wrong _he would take fighting a wraith, take _dying_ over who he sees in front of him.

And Jaskier _laugh in his face_, with eyes dead and no humor, and whispers “Always knew you’d be the death of me, witcher.”

Then the girl screams and runs out of the room and they’re on borrowed times, so Geralt reaches for the rope that fell to the floor again, but pain on his palm makes him back away.

The wound is sizzling with poison, but it’s cold and he knows how careful, slow cuts wouldn’t wake anyone for so long.

“What-?” Geralt’s not sure what to ask, because he already knows all the answers that hurt the most and they have no time for the rest.

The girl will find someone and come back and Geralt will have to make a choice again.

He won’t make this one and come out alive and he knows it and his blood runs cold.

“Let’s say I joined your line of work, witcher,” Jaskier puts away a small blade, half the size of his palm. Poison bites at Geralt’s nose, sharp and festering and familiar. “I just deal with only _one_ kind of monsters. Still too _human_ for ones fearing silver, I’m afraid. Fine with me, have you any idea how much silver's cost rose after the wars started?” His eyes as a frozen lake, his tone sharp as winter gale and yet Geralt’s own heart seems to melt.

Melt only so his guilt and horror can _burn_.

Because it must be his fault. He’s the one who hurt him right before all this, he’s the one who threw him away and it _must be him_, because this he can fix it or at least put blame on himself and other options leave him unable to breathe.

“I can’t let you-“

Jaskier laughs again, mocking, as he leans against a wall. “Still think you can order me around? Need I remind you I only ever heeded but one request of yours?” He raises an eyebrow and Geralt flinches, bites his cheek till he tastes blood.

He _is_ right. He never stayed behind, stayed safe, always throwing himself into danger. He only ever listened to him _once_ and Geralt’s heart burns stronger with the wish he never did.

“You need to stop.” He tries again, coming closer. He makes one step before he has to sway back, rope kicked up and almost snaring his neck.

“So close-” Jaskier shakes his head distractedly, reaching for his back. He opens and window and Geralt can suddenly smell alcohol, so strong it makes him grimace.

The blade that fell upon the floor earlier is in Jaskier’s hand, a flint in another.

Geralt knows what bard will do, he knows what he _should_ do to stop him and has no idea what he _can_ do, because he’s supposed to kill the monster, but Jaskier-

He can’t be that. He knows it, coming to _this_ house for _this_ girl proves it, no matter how twisted the logic might be.

“Please.” He’s not sure what he asks for, but whatever will take this awful choice away from his is fine. Jaskier’s hand falters, so he goes on “Please stop. I beg you, whatever you want, I’ll give you. Whatever you need-“

Jaskier strikes the flint and Geralt’s eyes shift to the smell of alcohol. He notices a small piece of fabric on the windowsill, then-

“Whatever, witcher?” Jaskier’s whispering to his ear, a blade as his neck, the end so close his artery Geralt stops breathing. A beat of his pulse alone makes the skin push at the blade, a drop of blood slowly seeping out of a tiny cut. “Even if I ask for your life?” he adds, soft as a feather, his breath ghosting over Geralt’s cheek.

The festering smell of the poison infects Jaskier’s smell, like flower field rotting away and sickly-sweet with decay.

But Geralt knows what choice he’s facing, so he nods. Blade moves along, blood sliding across it with the movement, but no more flowing out. It doesn’t move away, Geralt doesn’t breath. Jaskier just looks at him, eyes clear and bright, but still so cold there might as well be glacier between them, looks at him as he walks slowly to stand in front of him and thinks so long Geralt stars getting lightheaded, his chest shaking.

“You’re pathetic.” Blade moves away and Jaskier wipes it on the sheet before turning to Geralt who’s trying not to gasp.

There are screams outside, coming closer. The alcohol faded enough to not catch fire fast enough and Jaskier-

“I’d say it’s our cue to leave, wouldn’t you say, witcher?” he’s picking up the rope to tie it to the post of the bed, then throws it out of the window.

Geralt hesitates, thinks about Countess and the mutilated bodies, thinks about Jaskier’s cold eye and the sweet scent decaying.

There are footsteps on the stairs and Jaskier slips out trough the window and Geralt follows.

* * *

They’re in the forest close by, over a river, when Jaskier suddenly stops and turns around.

“There’s no wraith anymore.” He says, calculating eyes never leaving Geralt who sags a little in relief, then the wording fully registers.

“Where’s the last-?”

“Good countess should only look in a mirror to find all the answers she seeks.” Jaskier smiles and it’s all teeth and biting smell of pride comes off him. “Say, is the _paste_ she uses to heal her wounds disagreeing with her lovely powders? She looks so _ashen_, one has to wonder.” His voice lilts, lovely and dead like a porcelain doll. “Maybe she should lay off the meat too, I heard it’s _prone_ to poison you, but then monsters are prone to devour each other too.”

Geralt takes a breath, brows furrowing because he never was as good as the bard with words and metaphors. Then he understands, and has to bite his tongue not to vomit.

Jaskier laughs, leaning against a tree.

“Never thought I’d see _this look_ again, you know? So wounded and heartbroken! How long has it been, a decade? Baby dragon must be all grown up now!” he muses out-loud, a mocking _was it worth it_ heavy in the air. “At least I know she’s not the only one who can make you cover... Small victories-.”

“Stop.” Geralt’s hoarse and his voice breaks midway through the word and Jaskier just looks at him, as innocent as newborn faun, and the air is fresh with his amusement, like lemons cut open.

“You’ll have to be more specific, witcher.” He says lightly, like an indulgent parent to a child. “I might just decide you meant _living_ and take you up on it. After all, just _avoiding you_ per you're wish doesn’t seem to work despite my best efforts.” The last words are spat out.

Geralt wonders just how Jaskier ensured the silence of people toward him, but briefly.

As soon as Jaskier’s blade turn toward his neck he jumps at him, fingers clutching at his wrists and throwing his arms apart, as wide as they’ll go, pinning him to the tree. The weapon slips from bard’s fingers and soars through the air, catching some moonlight, then lands in the river.

Jaskier looks up at him and _pouts_, like when Geralt would forbid his more outlandish embellishment from being kept in songs. His scent is still rotten and sickly-sweet and Geralt remembers why it’s _familiar_.

The poison, yes, but what it smells of is _dead-alive_, bodies brought back to live with necromancy before it was forbidden and purged from all knowledge. He only met those vile things once, as a young man, but Jaskier reeks just like them.

Geralt shifts his finger and sags against him when he finds a pulse, human and normal if unsteady.

“Changing methods now, witcher?” Jaskier croons at him, and his body shifts and when Geralt looks at him the blue eyes burn, low and heated and sultry, tongue sliding across his lips as his hips move again, angled better.

Geralt is torn between jumping away and holding him still, but it seems Jaskier forgot who he’s dealing with. His pulse is unsteady with nerves, not adrenaline or lust, and this close, under all the rot he can smell the sour notes of fear, find the softer spoilage of disgust and shame.

He rests his forehead against Jaskier’s and almost smiles when bard’s breath hitches a little.

“Just stop.” He whispers, not looking away and drowning in the blue flames as Jaskier burns with fury, struggling once before giving up.

He never gave up that easily and it almost makes Geralt let him go. The disappointed huff probably means that's what Jaskier’s hoped for, so he holds his wrists tighten, thumbs stroking at his pulse.

“Just stop... we can fix it. Please, stop it.” He begs.

It seems to do something, because suddenly Jaskier’s reeking of salty regret so strong it almost drown everything else, like drowning in an ocean, then he’s trashing in Geralt’s hold so badly he hears his clothes rip, has do dig fingernails into his skin and smells blood. Blue eyes and wild like maelstrom and glassy and-

Geralt kisses him. It’s- not his best idea, because all he gets for it is a bleeding bite as his lip, but Jaskier stops trashing and only shakes, head pulled down. He’s muttering between gasping breaths, a jumble of words that Geralt’ slowly recognizes as a butchery of Elder Speech, only to realize it’s not butchery, it’s just _Nilfgaardian_ and his blood runs cold again.

“What happened to you?” he whispers before he can stop himself.

Jaskier laughs, long and hysterical and broken like an instrument out of tune, like delicate strings snapping under too much pressure.

“What _hasn’t_ happened will be shorter, it’s been a _decade,_ you fuck!” Jaskier’s hissing and his eyes burn again, but the words seem less rehearsed. He’s perfect control is slipping and Geralt relishes in it despite everything. “And stop laughing!” he struggles shortly again, then just brings his leg up to knee him in the groin, but they’re to close and it’s more of a weak shove/rub and-

They’re close and Jaskier’s alive and he kissed him and, well, it doesn’t have the effect Jaskier hoped for.

“Fuck you.” Jaskier looks ready to spit at him, so Geralt steps back, still holding one of his wrists. Jaskier slides to the ground, head between his knees. “I fucking _hate _that I still love you.” He mumbles, and Geralt forces himself to ignore it for the deflection that it is.

“Will you let me help you?” he asks, loose fingers wiping off the blood from Jaskier’s skin. He feels thick scars going along the inside of both of them.

Jaskier rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away, hugging his legs and hitting his head against the tree.

“I hate you.” He repeats. “I’m not _nice_, Geralt, I haven’t sung in months and I’m ugly and I will _destroy your reputation_ again if I’m even seen by your side, you idiot! I worked too hard to make you famous to-!”

“It was his sister, right?” Geralt changes the subject, slowly sitting down next to Jaskier. “The first victim's. She’s the spoiled child he brought all the gifts Countess gave him to.”

Jaskier gives him a weak glare and looks away.

Geralt waits.

“She was the last.” Jaskier kicks at the grass, fingers clutching at his dark pants, an inky blue almost invisible in the dark. “He spread legs to give this brat candy and fresh fruit grown for only the countess and she fucking _screamed at him at the courtyard_ to bring more!” he curls on himself. “She deserved it.” He adds, almost petulantly, like a child defending its grand idea to paint the room with mud.

Geralt grids his teeth. He’s not exactly surprised – when given a djinn, Jaskier wished a man to die. He’s a nuisance during hunts, but he’s got strong enough stomach to hack at any monster if they overpower Geralt for too long, even if it doesn’t usually make much difference.

He’s vicious and feels too much and so stubborn. He’d be surprised if he stopped this- punishment, vengeance, whatever he thinks he brought upon the Count and Countess in just them.

He shudders involuntarily when he thinks of telling them the truth and regrets it when Jaskier laughs.

“You’re disgusted aren’t you?” he says, eyes looking straight at Geralt, the blue eyes almost milky with how haunted they appear, but his tone is baiting. “I put his ashes to her powders and served his cock for di-”

“Stop it already.” Geralt grabs at his hair, making bard hiss, but he quiets down. “I know what you did and I’m still here, aren’t I?” he says, even though guilt pool in his stomach like lead.

He’s supposed to kill monsters, not love them and makes excuses for the carnage they leave behind, but-

Nobody is **dead**. He has a feeling he won’t find a single death that happened at Jaskier’s hand, not without a reason good enough Geralt's won’t blame him.

They are soaked in blood, but it makes all the difference.

Somehow.

“Yeah, well, you spent a week trailing a cockatrice, forgive me for still feeling like a dead man walking.” Jaskier snaps and Geralt flinches.

The smell, sickly-sweet and rotten, still clings to Jaskier, but it seems-

Bard _squeaks_ when Geralt leans in, nosing at Jaskier’s neck and hair, pushing away a high collar.

“I _swear_ I will bite off your-!”

“You won’t have to.” Geralt hums against his skin, eyes closing, free hand grabbing at the tree to support him.

That stench is slowly fading, into something bitter and sour, but anything is better that the rot. He’s not sure that is means, he still has no idea what he _feels_, but as long as Jaskier will let him stay-

Right. He still has to deal with _that_.

He breathes in, trying to remember any of his apologies, but Jaskier is right, it’s been years and-

“I can see the fucking _cogs_ in your head.” Jaskier sighs and turns his head away. “I forgive you, I was a useless burden, so you can kill me with clear con-“

Geralt grabs him by the hair and kisses him again, because the mere thought of Jaskier dying makes his heart stop, but dying by _his hands_, staining them _red_, **_the choice_** once again his-

Jaskier keeps to his word and bites at his tongue until they both taste blood, but Geralt just keeps him in place, because he’s eyes shone with such longing mixed with shame that before they squeezed shut he would have to be blind not to know what it meant.

I takes a second, another, a few more, then Jaskier shudders and throws his hands around Geralt’s neck, tongue licking gently at the bites as a broken moan slips from his lips.

Geralt moves away then, spitting out blood and never looking away. Jaskier’s playing idly with some grass, pouting again, but also there is a bitter smell of resignation coming off of him.

“Will you let me help?” he asks, gently, trying to quiet down every question he has for later. “I owe you as much, for everything I did.” He adds, because Jaskier deserves at least some kind of apology.

The bard shrugs before pulling himself up.

“I have a place close by, let’s go.” His eyes Geralt and the bitterness is cut trough with heavy mildew of regret. “I’ve got antidote at home.”

Geralt frowns, then looks as hid hand. The wound is closed, but the poison seems to work at least somewhat even on him, dark lines coming off of it under his skin.

He hesitates, thinks off all the things he should ask about and needs to know and has to fix, but-

They have time.

Jaskier’s letting him stay, so they have time for all of that.


End file.
